


Mirror Mirror

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Acceptance, Body Image, Caring, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, Injury Recovery, Insecurity, Love, M/M, No Sex, Scars, Tumblr: otpprompts, Weight Issues, brief mentions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5743969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, after resuming his intimate relationship with Moran, Moriarty is unhappy with certain aspects of his appearance and afraid that Moran isn’t attracted to him as he once was.</p><p>I took the following prompt from the tumblr blog OTP Prompts as my inspiration for this:<br/>“Imagine that person A of your OTP have gained a tiny bit of weight and their stomach has some fat rolls. They are a little embarrassed about it and are a tiny bit ashamed, but peson B thinks it’s S U P E R C U T E and they can’t keep their hands off person A’s tummy, they need to touch it all the time because it’s so soft and squishy. Person A’s reaction is up to you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror Mirror

    Professor James Moriarty has had some formidable foes before but he had never until now realised that mirrors have become his enemy. It is increasingly difficult to deny though that he has come to dread looking at himself in the mirror. When he bathes or dresses or combs his hair he tries to avoid examining his reflection for more than the briefest moment. It seems long gone are the days when he would catch sight of his image in the glass and admire what he saw.

    Moriarty is in some ways a vain man, a fact which might have surprised some of those who knew him and saw him in those good quality but well worn suits he tended to favour in his career as a professor, or with his hair left to flop almost boyishly over his forehead. While he never cared about being thought of as, as one might describe it, _conventionally handsome_ (for he knows that he is not and likely never has been that, by any stretch of the imagination), still though it mattered to him that he kept himself not simply clean and well-dressed but also in at least reasonable bodily condition. In his younger days he was quite skilled at boxing and though as he aged his fitness deteriorated somewhat, he still, up until that wretched detective crossed his path, thought himself in decent shape and that the lines that age began to add to his face gave him a rather distinguished look also. No doubt Colonel Moran might have been leaner and stronger and fitter than him even early on in their association but Moriarty did not feel inferior by comparison to him. Indeed during some of their more _outré_ games he was quite capable of physically overpowering Moran. Even when lured by Sherlock Holmes to the side of that infernal waterfall he was still in good enough shape to hold his own for some time (in fact he remains convinced that if only the path had not been so wet and slippery, he would have triumphed).

    Now though, as he draws off his bathrobe and forces himself to confront his own image in the mirror, he is not at all fond of what he sees. He knows that he is immensely fortunate to have come out of the water beneath the falls not only alive but relatively intact. Many would not have survived that fall. Too many variables to count, many of them miniscule ones, could have altered things so drastically, causing him to smash his skull wide open or snap his spine or a great many other significant bones in his body like twigs, either killing him instantly or leaving him to flounder helplessly in the churning water for a few agonising seconds before drowning. He has never wished to calculate the odds of him escaping with only broken legs, a few broken fingers, cracked ribs, concussion and his numerous gashes and bruises – he suspects that the fact he has beaten those odds would not be a comfort to him, not when his injuries still cost him so much and have left him in such pain – but he knows even so that a religious man might ascribe the term _miraculous_ to his survival. He is lucky to be alive, in short, and not only alive but to be able to talk and to walk, albeit stiffly and painfully and almost always with a cane, and also to be able to remember the majority of his life from before his fall. But just because he is fortunate not to have been killed or far more badly hurt does not make what he sees in his reflection any easier to bear.

    Most of his scars have faded significantly, losing their rawness and changing from angry red to a pale pink or white. Others, such as the one to the back of his head and that across his chin, are largely hidden anyway by his hair and beard and even most of the others can usually be concealed by his clothing. But then there are times when those scars cannot be hidden away, not from himself. He will not go without bathing for the notion of being dirty and unwashed is repellent to him, perhaps even more so than before, since he lay on his sick bed for many weeks in the immediate aftermath of the fall, totally unable to bathe himself. But to bathe requires that he undress, stripping himself of all clothing and accoutrements save for the gold ring he wears on his finger. At such times he cannot help but catch sight of some of those scars on his body, or when he looks in the mirror to aid himself in slicking down his hair his gaze cannot help but be drawn briefly down to his chin. His beard does hide much but there is still a slight parting in the hair there that should not be there, a vague jagged line where the hair will not grow quite right. Moran tells him it is barely noticeable; that anyone who knows nothing of the professor’s injuries wouldn’t even notice, but Moriarty notices. Every time that he catches sight of it is seems to stand out, mocking him with its presence, reminding him that for all his cleverness still he was bested by Holmes; that he was beaten not even in some brilliant intellectual dual but that he was ultimately simply tossed off the muddy path by the side of the waterfall and into the water, as if he was merely an unwanted kitten to be drowned or even less than that; an insignificant piece of litter to be thrown away by a man who Moriarty had been deluded enough to think might understand him.

    And then there is the matter of his weight. As he came out of his youth and crept towards middle age of course he became a little plumper, a little less toned and muscled – a more sedentary lifestyle as a professor coupled with his fondness for good foods and particularly for sweet things saw to that. That did not overly concern him though, not when he knew that he was still physically strong and in good health. But then came the fall; his injuries; his sickness, and that changed everything.

    Now he can only walk short distances at a time and is able to take far less exercise than he would prefer and though frequently his appetite is not what it once was he supposes what he has eaten has had its negative effect upon his body. After initially losing much weight when he was first injured, now he has gained weight. Some people might see this as a good thing, a sign of affluence, but to the professor it is only another painful reminder of how far he has fallen. If he had simply aged that might be uncomfortable enough but it would be bearable. To age is, after all, natural, as inconvenient as many aspects of ageing may be. But this is about far more than merely the natural process of growing older.

    He grimaces at what he sees in the mirror. No longer does he see the distinguished, self-confident mathematics professor-cum-criminal mastermind, only an old, scarred, somewhat overweight wreck of a man whose careers both proper and improper lie in ruins. It pains him that he has so changed; that he has sunk so low, not only striking at him directly but also… he wonders what must Moran think of him?

    The colonel was not left unaltered by all that they have endured. His physical health declined too, the inevitable consequence of not eating or sleeping properly for those many, many months after he believed Moriarty dead. His hair is far more greyed, his face more lined and still now, particularly when it is cool and damp, he is sometimes wracked by coughs, the lingering effects of the pneumonia he contracted no doubt. But when the professor looks at Moran he still sees someone clearly younger than he is; still someone wholly capable of drawing admiring glances from others, men and women alike. Moran was, he suspects, not someone who would have been deemed conventionally handsome either – his nose was perhaps a touch too large for that and his countenance too forbidding, with those deep-set blue eyes full of near-perpetual wariness; frequently filled with mockery too - but he was certainly aesthetically striking, and still is. What does Moriarty then have to offer to a man such as Moran; to a man still able to have his pick of countless others? Moriarty does not doubt for a moment that Moran has remained faithful to him but the fact is that since the first time they coupled since they were reunited, Moran has never asked him for sex again.

    Moriarty is contemplating the fat on his stomach still when the colonel appears behind him in the reflection.

    “Professor?”

    Moriarty glances up at him, startled out of his reverie.

   “Are you all right?” Moran moves towards him hesitantly. “You were taking a long time in here, I thought…” He pauses and scratches the back of his head, seemingly wondering if he is fussing and worrying too much again. Moriarty has chided him repeatedly for that already.

    “I’m all right.” Moriarty looks down at the reflection of his belly again.

     “I never usually see you naked these days,” Moran says. He shifts closer towards the professor again.

    Moran is dressed although somewhat haphazardly, in trousers with the braces hanging loose down his hips and his shirt not yet tucked in, with his collar undone, no tie on and his feet are bare also. Still he wears far more clothing than Moriarty at this time. That fact alone – that Moran has caught him in this moment where he is stripped entirely bare; when he is so incredibly vulnerable – brings heat and colour to Moriarty’s cheeks.

    “Why would you _want_ to see me naked?” he enquires with some bitterness in his tone.

    Moran presses himself to Moriarty’s back, slipping his hands around the professor’s waist. “Because you’re beautiful,” he says, nuzzling against Moriarty’s neck as he lets his gaze drift towards the reflection in the tall cheval mirror.

    Moriarty lets out a huff of disdain. “Don’t be absurd.”

    Moran kisses him softly against the spot beneath his ear. “I mean it.”

    “You are only saying what you believe I wish to hear.” Moriarty raises his eyes again and meets Moran’s gaze in the reflection.

    “And why would I do that then?” Moran enquires, his tone still soft and light, but he narrows his eyes slightly. He is used to the professor being somewhat precious about his body, usually preferring to retain some clothing even during sex whilst Moran was far more frequently completely naked. This was not though because Moriarty was embarrassed about his own body then; it was more simply because to remain clothed whilst Moran was naked was symbolic of Moriarty’s domination and Moran’s submission in their relationship. Things though have changed since Moriarty’s return to him. Moran senses that the professor’s desire to conceal his body from him has little to do with the balance of power between them; that Moriarty is now actually ashamed of his appearance, or at least of some aspects of it.

     Moriarty smiles somewhat sadly. “Because you mean well but truly, Sebastian, how can _this_ be beautiful?” With his right forefinger he indicates the scar that runs down his pale chest. “Or _this_?” He jabs at his stomach, grimacing again at how his belly wobbles at the touch.

      Moran draws Moriarty closer against him as he runs his hand over Moriarty’s stomach, splaying his fingers to gently stroke his belly. “Because _you_ are beautiful to me,” he says. “You always have been, you always will be, every part of you. You think a few little scars change anything?”

     “Even when those scars remind me of how I failed?” Moriarty spits out. “Of how I was beaten? How close I came to losing everything – my life, my health, my career, even you?”

      Moran gently presses another kiss to Moriarty's cheek. “They remind me of how you triumphed,” he says. His voice is low but his tone is clear, almost fierce. “Of how you could’ve given in but you never did; of how you rose up practically from the _dead_ to come back to me.” He raises his eyes beneath his bushy eyebrows to meet Moriarty’s gaze again in the mirror.

     “And what of this then?” Moriarty gestures again at the fat on his stomach. “You believe _that_ is beautiful also, do you? You who has bedded too many slim pretty young things to count.”

      Moran laughs scornfully at this. “Yes sir,” he says, “I believe that is beautiful also. What I did in the past and who I did it with… that has no bearing on what I feel, what I’ve _always_ felt, for you. You may hate this.” He gently pats Moriarty’s stomach again. “And that’s your prerogative but it ain’t up to you to decide what I truly mean when I tell you I think you’re beautiful, every inch of you. I’d not say it if I didn’t mean it.”

     Moriarty watches him for several seconds before glancing away. “I still cannot believe you desire me now as you once did.”

     “Are you kidding me?” Moran laughs again, without so much scorn this time. “Professor, I still long for you like I always did. You excite me like no-one else can. I’d gladly bed you five times a day if you’d let me.”

     Even Moriarty cannot suppress a small smile at this remark. “Five times would seem a tad excessive, even for you,” he remarks.

     Moran chuckles. “All right, maybe only four times a day then,” he concedes. “But yeah, you’ve got a bit more padding on you, but I like that.” He decides it is probably not a good idea to tell Moriarty that he likes how soft it makes him feel – the professor might infer something negative from _soft_ – but it is true. Even though Moriarty has not appeared completely unclothed to him in a long time, Moran has not been oblivious to the fact that the professor has gained a few pounds. When they sleep close together at nights or when occasionally Moriarty sits upon the sofa and allows Moran to rest his head upon his stomach, Moran has noticed that that bit of additional weight has made him feel softer, and there is something comforting about that. “If you simply dislike how you look now maybe I can’t change that but if you fear that because you’ve gained a little bit of weight you no longer appeal to me as you did, you’re fretting over nothing. You’re as attractive to me now as you always were.”

     Moriarty turns around to face his lover directly, no longer wanting to rely on the reflection in the mirror in case such images are deceptive. Looking straight into Moran’s eyes though he sees only sincerity, and Moriarty realises how much this does matter to him. It cannot go all the way to overcoming his present self-loathing but that Moran does not tell him he is beautiful still out of some sense of misguided loyalty or, worse, _pity_ , but because he truly means it, it helps. There had come to be a point in his life (and he is not entirely sure when it occurred, only that it was a long time ago now) where it came to be important to him what Moran truly thought of him. Moriarty could not have cared less what most people in the world thought about him, even most of those who worked for him, but Moran had always been different. Even early in their association he had found himself wanting Moran to admire him, even to like him.

     He slips his arms around Moran’s sides and draws him close, pressing his companion’s clothed body against his own naked one.

    “Why have you hardly ever suggested sex then, if you do still desire me as you did before?” he asks. “After the first time we were intimate in that way again you have seemed uninterested.”

     Moran shrugs slightly. “I just… I didn’t want you to think I was being pushy. Your feelings on it had changed and besides, I know you’re in pain much of the time still, and you get tired out very easily. If I made you feel like I didn’t desire you though, I’m sorry. That weren’t my intention, sir, and it ain’t true.”

     “You have nothing to be sorry for, pigeon.” Moriarty runs his hands up Moran’s back and relishes how Moran leans into the embrace, settling his head upon the professor’s shoulder. Moran feels thinner than him yet also more solid, more stable.

     For perhaps ten seconds or more they stand there holding each other, before it seems natural for both of them to draw back a little. Moran though clasps Moriarty’s hands in his as he grins at him. “You gonna stay in your birthday suit all night then?” he asks. “I’d be all for it of course but I reckon you might give other people a fright if you don’t put some clothes on.”

    Moriarty laughs softly. “Yes, I suppose I should get dressed for dinner.”

    Moran hesitates for a second before asking, “Do you want any help?”

    Moriarty’s instinct is to immediately and tersely say no, the remnants of his foolish pride almost eclipsing commonsense. He may struggle with getting his stiff left leg in particular into his trousers and finds fastening buttons to be a strenuous and prolonged ordeal but to need assistance with something as basic as dressing himself, it is humiliating. He notes though how conflicted Moran is about asking this; he realises too how carefully Moran has phrased the question – do you _want_ help, not do you _need_ help – so as to try to preserve some of the professor’s dignity. Anyone else and Moriarty would have firmly declined the offer; he would struggle on by himself even if it took ten times as long and ultimately left him feeling even more humiliated to turn up to dinner horrendously late and with his clothes in disarray.

     “Yes, my dove,” he says. “I would appreciate your assistance.”

     Moran gives him a quick smile, seeming relieved that he is not to be sent packing, and goes over to where Moriarty’s clothes are hanging up waiting to be put on.

     “Even you must admit that I look far better clothed than nude,” Moriarty remarks as Moran carefully and methodically fastens his shirt buttons for him, working from top to bottom, gently smoothing the fabric over the part of the professor’s stomach that vexes him the most before tucking it neatly into his trousers.

     As he puts Moriarty’s braces in place, Moran flicks his gaze up and grins. “I’ll admit to nothing of the sort. You look beautiful both in your togs and out of ‘em, sir.” He straightens up as he finishes putting the braces on, taking up Moriarty’s tie next and deftly fastens this about the professor’s neck, tying it and lying the ends neatly down over his stomach. As he turns away to pick up Moriarty’s waistcoat though the professor catches his arm, drawing him back.

     Moriarty reaches up to Moran’s shirt collar and carefully fastens it. A small gesture, one that still makes his once-broken fingers ache slightly, but it makes him feel better, more as if things are equal between them and he is not entirely dependent upon Moran.

     When Moriarty has finished this minor task, Moran gently takes the professor’s left hand in his right, drawing it to his lips whereupon he kisses Moriarty’s palm. “Thank you,” he says, which surprises Moriarty somewhat.

     “Surely _I_ should be thanking you,” he says as Moran brings over the subtly patterned waistcoat. No doubt he has a great deal to thank his companion for, as irksome as Moran may be at times when he is acting like a clucking mother hen.

     “You don’t need to.” Moran lowers his gaze as he fastens the waistcoat buttons. Moriarty could swear the colonel’s cheeks have flushed slightly. “I didn’t just mean thank you for fastening my collar. I meant… thank you for everything else; for coming back; for saving me again.”

     “Saving you?”

     “If you hadn’t come back I wouldn’t have cared if they’d hanged me for that snot-nosed little whelp’s death. Maybe I’d’ve practically begged ‘em to do it.”

  _But if I had not been so naïve I never would have left you in the first place,_ Moriarty thinks, although he cannot bring himself to say this. Moran has forgiven him for that already; it would do no good to speak of such matters again.

     Upon finishing buttoning the waistcoat, Moran suddenly drops to his knees before Moriarty, bowing his head, resting his forehead against the professor’s now fully clothed abdomen.

     Moriarty looks down at him, surprised by this gesture of submission. “Moran?”

     Moran looks up at him briefly. “I won’t claim that I worship the ground you walk on or anything else daft like that,” he says, “but you are beautiful to me, Professor.” He presses his face against Moriarty’s stomach again and Moriarty understands then, it is not just an act of submission but one of acceptance; of love.

     He puts one hand on Moran’s shoulder; with the other he strokes Moran’s head. The colonel’s hair, not now slicked down, feels soft as he runs his fingers through it. “You are beautiful to me too, Sebastian,” he says. “Far more beautiful than I am sure I deserve.”

     Moran laughs quietly. “I don’t know about that, sir.”

     Moriarty smiles down at Moran with great warmth. “We had best finish getting dressed or we may be late for dinner.”

     “Yes sir.”

      “Whilst you are down there you may as well help me with my shoes.”

     “Yes sir.”

      Moriarty sits down in the chair for this, watching Moran as he very carefully eases on the professor’s well-polished black shoes, supporting both of his stockinged feet in turn, gently cradling Moriarty’s foot in his palm, as he puts each shoe on. He then neatly ties each of the laces.

     “Moran.” Moriarty puts his hand upon Moran’s shoulder first but allows it to drift quickly over to cup the colonel’s cheek instead. “Thank you.”

      “It’s no trouble, Professor.”

      “I didn’t mean… just putting my shoes on.” Moriarty hesitates again, uncertain about what else to say, how best to express his deep gratitude towards the colonel. He can speak eloquently on many topics but when it comes to expressing certain things to his companion he may struggle and flounder about and end up feeling as if both of them are left far more unsatisfied with what ultimately comes out than if he had never said anything at all.

      Moran looks directly at him now, just briefly, and flashes Moriarty a smile. “I know,” he says, before dipping his gaze again. Two little words that neatly remove the need for Moriarty to say any more; that make it clear that further words are needless, for he does know; Moran accepts and understands Moriarty like no other person on earth.

     Moriarty looks down at him a moment longer before he coughs slightly to clear the slight lump that seems to have formed in his throat. “Well, ah, you must go and finish dressing yourself then.” He pats Moran lightly on the shoulder.

    “Yes sir.” Moran stands up and apart from a cursory glance he does not look at Moriarty, as if to spare him any further awkwardness.

     Moriarty remains sitting and watches Moran leave their shared bedroom to return to his own room where he keeps most of his clothing. Only when Moran has gone does he stand up again and goes to pick up his jacket. Crossing over to where it hangs though necessitates him passing in front of the cheval mirror again. He stops before it, turning to face it, to examine his reflection head on before turning to the left to scrutinise himself from the side. He looks a little better, he supposes. His stomach still seems more obvious than he would have wished but the tailoring of the clothes improves his overall outline. He still cannot understand how on earth Moran could think he is just as attractive out of his clothes as in them though but then, he supposes, attraction is neither logical nor predictable.

    As he looks at himself he is tempted to try to suck in his stomach, to give himself the brief illusion of having a slimmer figure, but he determinedly pushes that notion aside. He is no silly young man trying to impress his sweetheart. Anyway, if Moran can not merely accept him but actually admire him the way he is, he can at least try to do the same himself. With this thought held firmly in mind he puts on his jacket and then neatly slicks back his hair, doing so all in front of the mirror, forcing himself to confront his own image still and not to shy away from it.

    A slight cough from the doorway draws his attention back to Moran, who is now standing there fully dressed, with his hair also neatly oiled down.

    “Are you ready sir?”

    Moriarty takes a final look at his reflection now he is properly attired. He still sees a man who is ageing and too pale, with scars and a bit of a paunch, and a stiffness and slight unevenness to his posture indicative of him having suffered extensive injuries in the past. But he looks towards Moran then – Moran who accepts, even cherishes him, for all of his flaws; who seems genuinely to want to take the professor out and show him off proudly, declaring to the world, at least as boldly as he is able to in a society that will never openly accept their relationship, that the professor is his.

    The professor turns away from the mirror entirely, facing Moran instead, seeing such affection in the colonel’s eyes. “Yes,” he says as he walks slowly towards his companion, “I’m ready.”


End file.
